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Late to the drama party but never late to the commentary
My first blog post of 2026 is a rather trivial one. With so much unhappiness going on, I thought I’d keep it light. So let’s jump right in.
The thing is this: I am not much of a television buff. When faced with the choice between doing chores, creating something, or being lazy on the couch, the latter is almost never an option. I have to be under strict doctor’s orders, exhausted beyond reason, or maybe just a little depressed to sit down in front of a TV on purpose.
And last month, that’s exactly what happened. I couldn’t lift a finger due to sickness. So I forced myself to rest and decided to finally watch a series on Netflix. While browsing, a preview caught my eye.
I’m not saying I’m a picky watcher, but I do have a very short attention span. Because I’m aware of this, if something catches my interest right away, you can bet I’ll at least watch the preview. Crash Landing on You popped up as a recommendation. I’m not sure why, though I do search for foreign films every now and then, but I didn’t hesitate and pressed play. It was an immediate hit for my brain.
Like every book I’ve intentionally picked up, I couldn’t stay away from it. I couldn’t turn the TV off. I was going to bed at three in the morning every day, binge-watching episodes that were, well, much longer than I expected, but worth it. I became so invested that I inevitably looked up the writers and actors, only to discover that this K-drama originally aired in 2019.
Normally, Netflix recommends newer programs to me, so I hadn’t even bothered to check the date at first. But I guess I was just immediately hooked — and mildly offended that it took them six years to send this my way.
But this post isn’t about those little frustrations; it’s about praising the show. As a writer, I can’t overlook a captivating storyline. This was my first K-drama ever, and I was genuinely impressed by how the story kept me engaged until the very last second. I must have watched it twice by now — some scenes more than others. It was funny, sad, romantic, educational…
I loved every character and their individual arcs. The acting by the leads was superb. The chemistry was crazy (and of course, I found out actors Hyun Bin and Son Ye-jin married later in real life). The villains were compelling. And the soundtrack music — oh, the music. So emotional, intentional, and perfectly placed. Honestly, I didn’t know Koreans could drama like that!
Needless to say, like after finishing any great book, I was devastated when it ended. I wanted more. I wanted to know what happened to every living character after the final scene. I found myself thinking about them now and then, as if they were real — which, to me, is the ultimate sign of well-crafted storytelling. And always hilarious when I get that invested in fictitious characters.
I’m still a little upset that I was late to the party, but I’m glad I found it at all. I had something to look forward to during my less-than-stellar holidays season of 2025. And, as a storyteller myself, I’m inspired by and live for these sort of well-told stories.
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The turning of years
With the turning of the year
comes the weight of reflection.
Silent, yet inevitable.
Today I think of the quiet goodbyes,
and the loud ones that echoed through 2025,
like whispers in a rainstorm.Even when doubt clouds my heart,
I wonder if endings are tethered
to some unseen reason,
a thread woven too fine to see,
but which pulls us in ways we don’t understandThe way the universe spins with purpose,
sometimes sharp, sometimes soft;
strategically breaking hearts,
strategically mending us,
it’s hard to tell
if we’ll ever know
what (if any) good reasons it may have.But I’ve learned that one has to learn to let go.
To accept the flow, as things come, as they go…
and trust, even beneath the weight of uncertainty,
that it was all for a good cause. -
The weight of knowing
What’s worse? Being hit all at once unexpectedly or being hit after having had the chance to brace for impact?
Being blindsided is quite impactful, but being proven right can also have a strong kind of reckoning. It is frankness vs betrayal.
In a perfect world, we wouldn’t need to choose how we’d like to be “wounded” because everything would flow in a gentler way. But it is not a perfect world. Sometimes, we’re caught off guard…even after knowing what’s coming. And transitioning from that limbo can be challenging, regardless of whether we’d been warned or not
But somewhere between those two, lies the quiet ache of truth; the truth we wanted to hear, the truth we feared, the truth we pretended not to see.
We tell ourselves that preparation is a kind of shield, that foresight will make the landing softer. But truth is some blows land with the same weight, no matter how long we’ve watched them descend, while others — the ones wrapped in silence, omission, or half-spoken intentions — sting in a way no warning could have softened.
That’s because the heart doesn’t measure impact by timing; it measures by trust, by what was promised and what was withheld, by the gap between what could have been said and what was chosen instead. The heart always knows. Or is it the gut?
So, maybe the real question isn’t which hurts more but which pain we’re willing to live with: the shock of not knowing, or the heaviness of knowing all along.
Being hit at once and being warned before the hit both reshape us. Both ask for rebuilding. They both, in their own sharp ways, remind us how fragile it is to care in a world that rarely moves gently.
No matter what wound you choose, keep moving because transitions in real life can only wait so long.
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Radically warm
How cold have we become that some call a genuine smile and human touch oddly warm?
How guarded have we become that speaking openly about your struggles sounds brave?We talk about social construct as a foreign occurrence, when in reality,
it happens right before our eyes…every day.
A conditioned mind programmed to act accordingly
and accept only what’s in trend — that’s what we became.We applaud vulnerability like it’s a performance, yet tremble at the thought of being truly seen.
We crave connection like oxygen, but ration it like we’re facing famine,
afraid someone might take more than they deserve. Or worse, discover our lack of it.When did the need for safety become embarrasing?
When did honesty turn into rebellion?
When did tenderness need permission to exist?I fill the air with good-mornings when I sense tension.
I like hugs, I like heartfelt conversations.
I let my teary eyes show when empathy grows in my soul.
Because I’m not ashamed to show I am soft.Perhaps the greatest revolution left is remembering how to be human — to reach out without hesitation, to express ourselves without rehearsing, to feel (and to show it) without apology.
Maybe the bravest act now is simply to be transparent; to show love, to care, unashamed and unfiltered, until warmth is no longer a radical idea but natural again.
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In the soft light of November I remember
I don’t know what led to what first;
the warmth in my embrace,
the cold side of my bed,
the soft Christmas songs
whispering the arrival of a new season.How ironic that forgetting
was how I remembered
the memories that survivedMemory is a cruel tide
rushing in only when the shore
has grown quiet again,
when I finally stopped searching
for your face in crowds,
stopped replaying the end
like a scratched vinylthat’s when your name came back
to the tip of my tongue,
weightless
uninvited
like a ghost
tapping the glass just to prove
it still knows the way home.And maybe that’s all love ever was:
a haunting season that comes back around
even after the branches have learned
to live without eager leaves.I don’t miss you but the version of myself
who believed such sweet things
like the safety of the almost,
the silence before it all fell apart.So here I am,
in the glow of another season,
offering no prayers
lighting no candles.
Simply letting the cold be
and let it warm up where it maybecause some things are better left
as echoes,
as distant bells carried by the wind,
as the shadow of a feeling
you swear you’re done with
until it brushes your shoulder
one more inevitable moment. -
The Desire Vs the Duty: choosing wisely?
There’s a constant tug-of-war between the quiet joy of creating and the loud demands of survival. Never would I have ever imagined how powerful the tension between those two would be. Thing is I want to chase my dreams, but I also need to pay rent!
Being a creative soul and a responsible do-right, law-abiding citizen don’t go hand in hand, my friends. I mean, how can that even work when you’re just a DIY indie creator who can’t afford all the emotional and financial demands society has set forth for you?
What I want to do? I dream of mornings doing nothing but writing, observing, dancing, creating… Evenings lost in a world where my hands can tell a whole story in one sitting. I’d write anything, out of pure passion, with no interruptions. Just creating. As any passionate artist knows, losing yourself in the rhythm of it is everything. It’s not a lot to ask. I’m happy with these simple things. Simple, but a fulfilling way of life for me.
But then…there’s the other side of the coin: what I need to do. The deadlines, the responsibilities, the bills waiting in line, like silent little reminders that the world doesn’t work on dreams alone. (And that sucks.) The weight of it isn’t just financial; it’s emotional, too.
It’s the burden of having to show up every day, with a smile, if you can muster it, and a tired mind if you can’t. It’s waking up early to dive into a life that isn’t yours, but somehow was chosen for you? Something you didn’t sign up for but that is required of you, whether you like it or not.
I stare at the clock and feel the hours slip away, knowing I’m meant to be somewhere else. Mentally, I am “somewhere else” anyway. But it’s not enough. I’m physically here, going through the motions. That’s reality. I can feel the itch of it, the pull of that one thing I love the most, like a rope tied around my chest, pulling me in every direction except the one I’m presently walking.
Sometimes, it feels like I’m caught in a tug-of-war with myself. On one end, there’s the promise of freedom—the sweet possibility of spending every minute doing what makes me feel alive. It’s right there in the back of my mind, like an old school song, reminding me every moment where I belong. But on the other end, there’s the cold reality of what needs to be done: the adult responsibilities, the routines I can’t escape, no matter how much I wish I could. All just so I’m able to pay rent, to put food on my table, a roof over my head (and to treat myself!). But still, not my choice.
And I wonder, am I doing this for myself or for the world? Is the weight of responsibility a necessary evil or am I just convincing myself that it’s what I have to do?
Every time I tell myself I need to do something, I feel a little piece of my soul slip away. But when I chase what I want, I rejoice. Even if the crushing pressure of time slips through my fingers.
I can’t seem to escape the feeling that I’m constantly running on two parallel tracks—one leading to a life of obligation, the other to a life of fulfillment but which I can’t conquer completely.
What would be the cost of not choosing the need? Homelessness? A life of struggle? It’s crazy it has to be this way. I think humans have made life unnecessarily difficult for themselves with all the man-made laws and unwritten rules.
I’ll keep running, though, even if I’m running in circles. There’s no other way to move forward, I suppose? And in those brief moments when I can steal time for what I love, I’ll remember the reason why it’s worth it: it simply brings me joy. Somewhere deep down, I know the desire is the thing that keeps me from losing it while I’m on duty.
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Haunting Sunday
Sunday blues this early morning,
I hold my chest and close my eyes,
wish I could escape from this war
where dreams fade and silence liesThe tea cools, the clock keeps ticking
its hands like ghosts that never rest,
In this hollow space I find myself slipping
into a world that feels half-possessedThe walls feel closer, the air thinner,
a quiet ache I can’t ignore
for all the places I’ve never been
and all the things I can’t restoreSo here I linger, lost and fading
between the should-have-beens and might,
a tender heart forever waiting
for Sunday’s dawn to give me light. -
A letter from the ashes
How can you not get political in 2025?
I am disturbed, saddened, and disappointed when I find out someone doesn’t care for what’s happening around us. It feels like the world has always been on fire, but when it’s closer to home; when the flames reach your doorstep, when the smoke fills your lungs, it hits different, as they say.
And today, after watching the vandalizing of the White House by MAGA Republicans, something inside me cracked. Never, NOT IN A BILLION YEARS, would I have imagined the United States of America under siege by its own president. Illegitimate, nonetheless, but the one sitting in power…for now.
(And yes, I dare say illegitimate. After hearing him boast on camera about his buddy Elon rigging the election, and watching journalists too afraid to ask the real questions when evidence has been more than enough. Furthermore, after seeing all the chaos, corruption, and sheer moral decay on display, I’m convinced the rightful winner of the 2024 election was Kamala Harris. And I will die on that hill.)
For the record, this is obviously not a journalistic piece. This is typical me — just a little more unfiltered, raw…saying whatever the f*ck I want because I am fed up.
Anyway… like many, I feel powerless. Helpless. Watching these so-called ICE “agents” snatch innocent people off the streets in broad daylight and sending them to who knows where, no due process or anything — in violation of human rights and in violation of the US Constitution — feels like a stab straight to the gut. Hardworking human beings reduced to nothing. Families torn apart. Asian, Black, and Latino communities deliberately terrorized and children being traumatized. All those civil rights that generations before us bled for, all the progress we thought we made… it’s all being undone, one cruel act at a time.
It’s soul-crushing.
The thought that this kind of deliberate cruelty still exists — not hidden, not subtle, but out in the open for the world to see — feels too heavy to process. I walk with a bruised heart, just tired of existing in this, the cruelest timeline. Hopeless because it feels like no one is coming to save us. I mean, the country is being run by the stupidest people the world has ever known, for god’s sake! It’s both terrifying and infuriating.
Sometimes I look back at history and I can’t believe we’re doing this all over again. How do humans keep failing the same moral test?!
But then I remember that history also has its way of correcting itself. The French Revolution, for example. The execution of King Louis XVI, who betrayed his country much like the man currently parading in office. Hitler taking his own life when the walls finally closed in. Benito Mussolini’s fall…
Morbid? Perhaps. But it gives me a bit of hope. Because if it is true that history repeats itself, it must do so in its entirety…and leave no crumbs.
If history will repeat itself, I hope it’s not just the suffering, but the reckoning too. That’s the only thread of hope left; that the same fire consuming everything now will one day cleanse it. That truth, no matter how long it’s buried, always finds its way back to the surface. So I hope this regime understands that actions have consequences.
Until real actions by Democrats and real patriots are taken, we watch. But still, we push back, we resist, we speak. Silence, in times like these, is complicity — and I refuse to be complicit in the unraveling of the home that gave me a voice.
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Tired, truly
Tired, truly.
Of words that fall out reckless from careless tongues;
half-formed, half-thought, like they were never meant
to mean anything at all.
How can’t they see or understand pain unless it’s theirs to claim?
How can their eyes never learn to read truth unless it flatters them?Tired, truly.
This thing once called common sense
now feels rarer than peace,
rarer than listening.
This blindness to another’s ache.
How strange.Tired, truly.
Of being weighed, measured, and still found suspicious
for just existing without apology, for being ambiguous.Tired, truly.
Of being the quiet storm
holding the walls up when others crumble.
The twenty-four-seven adult in every room;
steady, sensible, never allowed to unravel,
never allowed to stumble.Tired, truly.
Just wanting to vanish into the simplicity of being,
to breathe without permission,
to exist without life’s expectations,
without society whispering
be smaller, softer, submissive.Because I am none of that.
I am the witness to everything that’s made me me,
the wound, the cure, the protest, the one fighting cruelty.
I’m the one who is still able to love
in a world that keeps trying to teach her
that it is a sin.Tired, truly.
But just awake, not defeated. -
Hispanic Heritage Month in the Times of Cholera
I don’t need a month or a season or a reason to celebrate my heritage, but we’re halfway through Hispanic Heritage Month and I haven’t posted about it on here yet, so it’s about time.
My heritage month is a time to honor the heartbeats of cultures that pulse through history, celebrating the vibrant traditions, languages, and rhythms that shape the very fabric of who we are. It is a moment to lift up the voices and stories that echo with strength, resilience, and beauty; the stories that have too often been unheard or misunderstood. Through music, art, food, and dance, we recognize the indelible mark left by Hispanic and Latino communities on the world stage.
And what a time to celebrate us, here in the United States, where we’re being under attack for merely the color of our skin. What a time to remind the nation of our rich beautiful culture, of our contribution to this society and of our strength.
So, yes; it’s not only a celebration. It’s a reminder of the challenges our communities continue to face — the struggles against inequality, injustice, and underrepresentation.
This month offers a space to reflect on those hurdles while acknowledging the tireless work being done to break barriers and build a more equitable future. And boy, do we have a lot of rebuilding to do.
They tried to bury us, but they didn’t know we were seeds.
Hispanic Heritage Month is also an invitation to learn, to dive into our history (which is not always accurately portrayed in textbooks), to discover the hidden legacies that weave through the essence of our shared identity. It’s a call to broaden our understanding, to cultivate empathy, and to foster a deeper respect for the diversity that makes us whole.
By honoring the Hispanic and latino culture, we don’t just celebrate a month; we celebrate a movement toward inclusivity, a recognition of the ways in which our differences make us stronger and more united. Some might try to erase us, but the ghosting will always remain. Every story, every one of us is a vital thread in the larger tapestry of who we are as a culture, and a nation.
Happy Hispanic Heritage Month!
